A note
by sevenofmine
Summary: John writes a letter to Sherlock explaining that his feelings toward him have forced him to leave Great Britain. M-Rating for Slash
1. The letter

**My first Sherlock/John.**

Dear Sherlock,

it feels already awkward when I am writing to you. My words form clearly in my head but bringing them onto paper is a completely different thing. I have so many things to tell you and I would like to say thank you.

But then you would wonder why and I could not answer. When we first met, you were not just a freak, but a mystery to me. You knew everything about me and to be honest, it was confusing and nothing more. I was surprised and this feeling kept on. When we met a Bakerstreet, I met you without any warning or with any intentions.

I was thrown into cold water and this silent sea I began to drown in was deeper than expected. You tried to get me back to the coast before I sink down in the darkness and I think you have succeeded. But still, you are a simple riddle to me, and if you were me, you would die to get behind it.

Because of all the cases you solve and the secrets you uncover, you are the biggest to everyone close to you. And I knew that I would never completely understand you and I doubted that I could ever reach you, when you left me alone after our first crime scene. But after some time, you depended on me and I depended on you, as we would never admit it to one other.

I mistrusted you in the beginning but especially in the last moments before your first disappearance, I would have trusted you with my life. I cannot forgive myself to letting you into danger while my stupid attempts to be like you have jeopardized everything – but not our friendship.

So I see it my fault to have run into Moriarty's men and have been brought into that swimming pool with dynamite all over my body. I had been scared, scared to hell and I never told you that although you knew already. But it didn't seem to interest you. To be honest, nothing ever seemed to care you. You walk through the world without looking back or at your side and still you notice everything.

Every little detail about me has been uncovered, and you never feared to tell Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade what you thought. You never drew back, when you pushed that CIA agent out of the window or when you followed the mad taxi driver through whole London. You always searched a reason for an action and I never doubted you, even when you did so yourself, believing in the Hound of Baskerville.

What I never understood was Irene. You call her The Woman, you show that she was important to you, you saved her life and still you denied any feelings. And as this is probably the last thing you ever hear from me, let me tell you the truth: I hated her. I wished her to die and every time I heard about her perishing, I felt the joy that you feel when solving a crime or whipping a dead body in autopsy.

I hope that she'll stay disappeared forever and never dares to come back to you. She is no good for you and not only because she loves you, like nearly everyone does, or because she's nothing more than a prostitute. It is because I am jealous. I envy her for her luck to get so close to you, you have occupied with her for such a long time, and although rejecting any of her attempts, you have never showed your own intentions.

I always wondered if you were not interested in anyone at all, but Christmas together showed that you do have a heart. What you did to Molly, was both disgusting and heart-warming when you apologized to her. She is the only one who would have earned your presence and I hope that you will take my advice and tell her what you honestly think about her.

I would have liked if you did this to me as well, you told me so often how silly I am and what an idiot and I took it as a compliment because it was one. But what do you really think? What do you really know? You are the most clever, most intelligent man I've ever met and you never noticed the most important thing that defined me?

As I now sit on the plane to the United States, I see it clearly in front of me. Either you are that close-minded and fixated on your work, so egoistic you appear, or you just don't want it to be true.

Fearing it was the latter, I actually fled from you and your presence. But whatever you might think right now, never forget one thing about me, that I loved you and that I will always do.

You stay in my heart forever,

Your John H. Watson

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**Please comment.**

**I also have a Sherlock/Q-Slash in my Sherlock-Skyfall crossover.**


	2. The decision

It was late evening when Sherlock came home this night. He had spent longer than expected in autopsy and when he left the room, Molly had already fallen asleep. The sky was already becoming darker when he unlocked his door and entered the silent hallway.

Mrs. Hudson was not at home this weekend and therefore Sherlock went quickly up to see if John had gone out this night or was still writing his ridiculous blog. To his surprise, Sherlock saw immediately that none if this had happened. But nevertheless, he couldn't spot John as both his jacket and shoes were gone, so was his laptop and most of his personal decoration of the living room.

Sherlock turned around twice and then went straight for the envelope he noticed on the kitchen table. He threw his gloves on the counter and hung his black coat onto the chair. He reached for the piece of paper and pulled out the letter. It had been written by hand and before he read the last line, he knew who it was from.

"What have you done now, John?" Sherlock muttered and sat down in the armchair of the living room to read the letter. He did so very quickly and to describe it honestly, his jaw literally dropped open. However, he made his typical face of not understanding something or someone – which happened very rarely, and if so, only because of strange interactions of other people.

He hadn't noticed a tear running down his pronounced cold cheek until it dropped onto the paper. He placed the letter on the table next to him and bent forward, his hands on his knees. He didn't know what to do and leaned back into the armchair. What did John now expect from him? Did he expect anything at all?

What would a normal person be supposed to do – and did John count him as a normal person? Sherlock doubted that.

He walked back into the hallway and checked his friend's room. As expected, it was empty. The cupboard, the wardrobe, the night table and the desk – all as empty as Sherlock hasn't seen it before. And he had always been the one teasing John about the mess in his room. Now, it was tidy and clean. He must have planned this for a long time.

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the door. What now? A bus departed every ten minutes from the close Ouzelstreet to the airport. John could have left hours ago while Sherlock had solved their latest case in the hospital's basement. And there were plenty of flights to the US. There was no way he could be sure that John was even still on the island as he had been certain to be on the plane when Sherlock found the letter.

But it was a chance he had to take. Sherlock ordered a taxi and quickly smoked the very last cigarette of his secret storage while waiting for the cab to arrive. It took him twenty-five minutes to arrive at the main airport, after being nearly completely stuck in the horrific traffic jams all over London.

With one glance on the departure-screen, Sherlock saw that he had luck: There had been a fire in the hangar with the biggest planes and since then, most transatlantic flights have been delayed or cancelled.

The staff was all needed at the airfield and the security checks could only be done later as well. Sherlock hurried through the big halls in hope of spotting a well-known face.

He was nearly desperate enough to give in when he recognized the short and still military haircut of his very best friend. And while walking toward him, Sherlock had never been so sure that he was the man with whom he could become more than only best friends…

**Please review.**


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